by Josie Litton
Even as she blushed charmingly, Gemma took all this in. If her days at dear old Mary Magdalene had taught her anything, it was to be ever vigilant.
Ophelia bore watching, for certain. Sienna as well, although she was probably less of a problem. Winfred Bonneville was a potential ally; she was busy frowning at the other two. As for the Fernsby girls, she would trust them about as much as she would a pair of drunken monkeys. If they were a few notches lower on the evolutionary ladder, they’d be flinging their poo at rivals.
And so to bed, which required the sort of stylized drama more commonly associated with Kabuki theatre, mainly from the Western desire to view the East as inscrutable while one’s own self is virtuously clear. Pure bunk, of course, as was amply on display in the great hall of Ardsley Manor as they all prepared to retire for the night.
It was a dance of sorts, the seeming pairing off of couples--or a trio in the Beaufort/Fernsby case--but subtle posturing hinted at other arrangements.
Charles put an arm around Gemma and drew her against his side. Something passed between him and the others, so elusive that if she hadn’t been alert, she would have missed it.
A glance from one, an inviting smile from another, the tilt of a head toward the stairs and the bedrooms above, all followed by a slight scowl and a firm shake of that golden head she so loved to clutch in the throes of ecstasy.
Her husband’s usual bonhomie had vanished; clasping her to him, he exuded lord of the manor possessiveness.
Gemma reveled in it. The subterranean undercurrents of the evening that had kept her so on edge dissolved. She leaned against him, content to her marrow that they were unmistakably and indivisibly a united front.
Of course, once upstairs, he wasted no time tumbling her face down onto the bed and riding her hard, all the while slapping her bottom rosy red. She counted that a small price to pay for his faithful devotion.
Indeed, he left her so well satisfied that she paid no attention whatsoever to the scurryings in the hall beyond. These continued into the wee hours of the night, the game of musical mattresses mambo ending only with the slow creep of dawn.
Chapter Three
Breakfast--or more accurately brunch given the lateness of the hour--was a subdued affair. Half the house party did not make it down, instead requesting trays in their rooms. The rest stumbled in singly and in pairs. Yet youth and natural resiliency were not to be denied. By the time they were all ready to depart for the match, everyone appeared much restored.
The men went off first--Charles, Nigel, Freddy and Clive to prepare for the game. Bernie and Beaufort, as the latter liked to be called, rode along to offer support.
With them gone, the Fernsby girls staked out one side of the morning room along with Ophelia and Sienna while Winfred kept Gemma company at the other.
“Don’t mind that lot,” the countess said. Her otherwise ordinary face was transformed by a warm smile. “Seeing you and Charles so happy is almost more than they can bear.”
Gemma was not so naïve that she couldn’t understand why others would begrudge her all that went with being Marchioness of Ardsley. There were few titles and fortunes so great, and none of them were attached to a husband as handsome and virile as Charles.
Still, it wasn’t as though the others were slackers. Nigel, Freddy and Beaufort were all excellent catches, assuming they could be properly tagged, bagged and dragged to the altar.
When she said as much, Winfred shrugged. “They would have been all right about it if Charles had married any one of their set but you came out of nowhere.”
Stirring the tea she no longer wanted, Gemma said, “Not exactly, my father arranged our marriage.”
“In payment for a debt but Charles never intended to agree to that. He just went up to Mary Magdalene because he thought he should have a word with you in person. When he came back, you were suddenly engaged. It was a shock to everyone.”
“I see…” Gemma could not hide her dismay. Did they all know her most private business, including her shame at having been bartered away by her own father?
“But that’s all water under the bridge now,” Winfred went on. “They’ll come round, you’ll see. Just…if you don’t mind a word of advice?”
“Please,” Gemma said quickly. “I would appreciate anything you care to tell me.”
“Well, then…about the club. Clive, Charles and the rest have been members since they turned sixteen, as their fathers, grandfathers and so on were before them. Clive and I came to an understanding about it. I’m sure you and Charles will as well. The important thing is not to take it too seriously. Remember, it’s all just a game to them.”
“Of course, polo is a game. Why would anyone think otherwise?”
Winfred sighed. “That’s not what I mean, dear. It’s the club itself. The smart thing to do where it’s concerned is to give the appearance at least of being a good sport.”
Gemma frowned. Now that she thought about it, they were talking about one of those strongholds of male privilege where gentlemen congregated to pursue their amusements unhindered by anyone who might cast a judgmental eye. For that reason, women were generally barred from the premises. If they were admitted at all, it was with the clear understanding that they would be humbly appreciative and refrain from ruffling any male feathers.
As she pondered what all that might mean in Charles’ case, she asked, “Even if I don’t especially like the place?”
“Oh, especially then, dear.” Winfred leaned a little closer, her voice dropping to a confiding murmur. “The plain fact is that men of our husbands’ class don’t question their right to indulge themselves however they see fit. We might wish it were different and perhaps someday it will be. But for now that’s how our society works. Challenge that and you run the risk of not being considered one of us.”
“I see…” She didn’t, not entirely, not yet. But as the daughter of a mere knight who had barely a toehold on the ladder of aristocracy, she knew that marriage alone would not win her acceptance as the Marchioness of Ardsley.
She would have to prove herself in a world with rules and expectations that she was still very far from understanding.
The challenge was more than a little daunting. With a final glance toward the other side of the room, Gemma girded herself to meet it.
∞ ∞ ∞
The Polo Club occupied a spacious Georgian manor a half-hour’s drive from Ardsley Manor. It was by any measure a magnificent structure, three stories tall with a white-columned portico, all surrounded by rolling lawns and gardens dotted with topiary hedges in the form of life-sized ponies and their riders.
Liveried servants darted forward to open car doors and assist the ladies’ out. Maids followed in a van, emerging at the back entrance with their arms full of garment bags and dragging small trunks. As the party would be dining at the club, it had been decided that it would be easier for everyone to change there.
That begged the question, easier for whom? To Gemma’s eye, they looked like an army on the move. Assuming, of course, that said army was equipped by Gucci and Louis Vuitton.
Charles had mentioned having something sent over for her. Belatedly, in light of what Winfred had told her about the club, she wondered what he had chosen. ‘Wondered’ in this instance being somewhere between ‘uneasily anticipated’ and ‘outrightly dreaded’. Not that she didn’t trust his fashion sense but he did have a marked tendency to throw modesty to the four winds and anywhere else that was handy.
The stables and playing fields were a short distance away, easily reachable on foot or by the little golf carts that darted back and forth continuously. Gemma took her place in the stands with the others where they were shortly joined by Bernie and Beaufort.
Spectators numbered in the hundreds, all elegantly turned out. The women were mostly in bright floral dresses although much of the younger crowd seemed to have decided on polka dots. They all sported hats--the bigger and bolder the better--embellished with silk flowers, ribbons
and the occasional stuffed bird.
In contrast, the men were all in gray or black morning suits, the only allowances for color being their ties and, rather to Gemma’s surprise, their socks. She glimpsed everything from argyles, strips, and tartans to the occasional flash of a super hero. Iron Man appeared to be a favorite but Hellboy had his fans.
Anticipation was running high. Cheers, good natured jeers and more than a few bets flew fast and furiously between the supporters of the home team and those of the visiting Abu Dhabians.
She did not see Charles until he emerged with the other members of his team onto the field. He looked quite splendid in his snugly fitted polo shirt, white breeches and riding boots. As he swung agilely into the saddle, she could not help admiring the muscular curve of his buttocks. A glance in Bernie’s direction suggested that he was equally moved by the sight.
The game began at once, proceeding through six ten-minute-long chukkas of full-contact, in-your-face play. Only the ponies were spared, being regularly exchanged every few minutes for fresh mounts.
The men got no such consideration nor would they have tolerated it. The ‘exhibition’ game on a lovely Saturday afternoon in the English countryside was an echo of a far more primitive sport played with the heads of enemies and fought on until only the strongest and most agile prevailed.
That was Charles and his team with Charles himself driving the final goal between the posts to end the match. The shot, managed by bending wide in the saddle and swinging his mallet beneath the neck of his mount, was so impressive as to bring admiring cries from both sides.
Afterward, there was a reception in a large white tent where champagne and strawberries were served to the accompaniment of a string quartet. Cordial laughter and references to ‘next time’ rang out before the Abu Dhabians flew off in their helicopters in the direction of London. Their horses, grooms and all the rest would follow by road.
“Congratulations,” Gemma said when she finally had a moment to herself with her husband. “That was thrilling. I can see why you enjoy it so much.”
His grin was so boyish that her heart tightened. “It is marvelous, isn’t it? I can’t think why anyone plays anything else.”
Gemma refrained from suggesting that might have something to do with the expense of maintaining a string of polo ponies and transporting them on the elite global playing circuit. Her husband looked supremely happy and she was not inclined to change that. Instead, she took the hand he offered. Together, they strolled along manicured paths back to the club.
In the soaring, oak-paneled entrance hall, he parted from her with a quick kiss and a smile. “Must get changed. You’ll want to do the same.”
She did and she didn’t but it wasn’t as though she had a choice, although that certainly would have been nice. On the verge of discovering what the evening held, she found her apprehension growing.
Upstairs, the ladies’ retiring room was a bustle of activity. Ophelia, Sienna, Winfred and the Fernsby pair were already there, the last two preening stark naked in front of one of the full-sized mirrors while the others were in various stages of undress. The harried ladies’ maids in their black uniforms darted about or knelt to help fasten garters and strap on shoes.
“There you are,” Winfred said when she spotted Gemma. “What took you so long?”
Sienna sniggered. “Stopped for a quick shag, did we? I do hope that you didn’t frighten the horses.”
Apart from raising a brow at Sienna’s pierced nipples adorned with gold barbells, Gemma ignored her.
“We walked back,” she said to Winfred. Looking around, she added, “I should have a bag …or something.”
“It’s all right here, my lady.” Her maid gestured to the corner of the dressing room that she had staked out for her mistress.
About to reply, Gemma was distracted by the sight of one of the Fernsbys wiggling her way into a gown that might more easily have been painted onto her. It was so snug that the pouting mounds of her labia were clearly visible beneath it. If not for the slits from ankle to knee on either side, she wouldn’t have been able to take a step. As it was, the best she would be able to manage would be a hip-swaying mince.
Off to the side, she noticed Ophelia being laced into an elegant black gown that would have looked quite subdued had it possessed a top. Instead, it left the globes of her admittedly lovely bosom entirely exposed, the better to display her carmine-rouged nipples.
As the nature of the club’s fashion code for female guests began to dawn on her, Gemma cast a worried look in the direction of the gown that her maid had waiting for her. She sighed with relief when she saw a two-piece silver-and-ivory confection that appeared to have both a top and a bottom. The long, graceful skirt would brush the tips of the strappy heels that the maid had also set out. The matching bodice was short sleeved, waist length and with a high neckline.
Of course, Charles having selected it, both were made of silk so finely spun as to be transparent. Or they would have been had they not been so lavishly embroidered in all the key places.
She was just beginning to feel a bit more confident when without warning, her maid leaped back and shrieked. “Bugger me!”
So unseemly an ejaculation would, under normal circumstances, have been cause for immediate dismissal. However, it was evident at once even to the most jaded eye that the maid was not to be blamed. The poor thing had innocently opened the leather case that had accompanied the gown and been startled--to state the obvious--but what she had discovered.
For an awful moment, Gemma suspected her husband of having sent along some utterly improper device---perhaps one of those devilish little egg-shaped vibrators that he delighted in inserting into her--so that he could amuse himself watching her squirm over the course of the evening.
But almost at once, she realized that she was doing Charles a terrible disservice. Far from intending to torment her, the contents of the case were lavish evidence of his regard.
Diamonds filled the fitted tray on the top of the case. At a glance, she saw pendant earrings, bracelets, and a necklace from which hung a pear shaped gem so large that it alone would have purchased a small island in one of the nicer latitudes.
Remembering his joke to Ismay--she preferred to think of it as a mere witticism--that if he ever collared her, it would be with diamonds, she peered more closely into the case. To her relief, no such object was present.
Swiftly, all the other women gathered round, ladies and maids united in a moment of pure avarice. Not merely for the diamonds themselves, although they certainly merited it. But for the manner of their gifting, almost casually, as though this was the sort of thing the Marchioness of Ardsley could expect on a regular basis from her besotted husband.
Ophelia was the first to recover. “He’s gone mad,” she declared flatly. “Those should be under guard, not tossed in a case like so much costume jewelry.”
“Oh, don’t be an idiot,” Winfred said. “Clearly, Charles wanted to surprise Gemma. I think it’s safe to say that he’s done that and that it’s terribly sweet.”
A part of her truly wanted to agree. But the more rational aspect of her nature could only wonder: Were the diamonds a bribe meant to soften her up for the evening’s entertainment? Or were they her husband’s means of apologizing in advance for however he intended to enjoy it?
Chapter Four
Descending along the curving main staircase, one hand carefully holding her skirt up and the other gliding along the railing, Gemma got her first look at the Polo Club’s female staff.
The young woman--who by any objective measure was quite lovely--wore a pert little French maid’s cap, a red garter belt, black stockings, stilettos and nothing else. She carried a silver tray upon which rested a trio of martinis, two glasses of whiskey and a gimlet. Apparently, the gentlemen had gotten down first for pre-dinner drinks.
About to step out onto the terrace where the members were gathered, the young woman added a greater sway to her hips, a jiggle to the
round, firm globes of her ass and a decided bounce to her bounteous bare bosom.
Gemma paused at the foot of the stairs. She was at a loss to determine how that effect was produced. Did one balance on the balls of the feet or--?
“They’re taught that walk,” Winfred said. She had come down immediately behind Gemma and followed the direction of her gaze unerringly.
Her smile was resigned. “And a great deal more. Although to be fair, most of them don’t need any such instruction. No one gets hired on as staff here without prior experience in the finest private clubs.”
Winfred looked lovely in a sapphire gown that complimented her eyes. It was high-necked, long-sleeved, and beautifully but hardly indecently fitted. It wouldn’t have been at all suitable for the club had her back not been left entirely bare for some distance below the cleft of her well-toned bottom.